


Carry Tribute to the Departed

by Cosmic_Biscuit



Category: Wonder Woman (2017)
Genre: F/F, Fluff and Angst, Romantic Friendship, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 08:58:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11414544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cosmic_Biscuit/pseuds/Cosmic_Biscuit
Summary: Diana sees off the last of her original circle of human friends.





	Carry Tribute to the Departed

It's been dim and cloudy all day.

The church is so quiet that she can tell the breath of each mourner, all grim and proper and refusing to cry publicly.

For her own part, she sits stiffly in the pew, one hand clutching the sweet shop bag in her lap, and the other occasionally closing on empty air, bereft. Because Etta -brave, noble, kind Etta, who’d walked through fire with her and held off Death almost long enough to see the new century- isn’t there to hold her hand as she had through the funerals of all their other dear friends. 

Because Etta is up there, in the box.

~  _Kitty had begged that she be in the mourning line. “You are **family** ,” Etta’s daughter had insisted with a stamp of her foot that was familiar, so familiar that it ached. _

_But…_

_But she had regarded Etta’s younger siblings, nieces, nephews, none of whom she’d met until then, and she’d known their hard stares and unyielding eyes._

_They regarded her and Kitty both as ‘mistakes’ of Etta’s wild youth that hadn’t gone away, and while Kitty couldn’t be avoided because of blood, they could shut **her** out, and she, for the rare occasion, had decided it best not to make a scene._~

“Though you probably would have enjoyed it if I had,” she murmurs softly to nothing, fingers tightening on the bag.

She tunes out the priest's words and their cold lack of reassurance, and instead retreats into old memories, old laughter, old tears. 

She waits, silent and stoic, until only she and the box and the flowers remain, and then she walks up the rows, shoes clicking softly against the stone.

Time stole her friend’s youth.

Death and the morticians stole her life.

But she is pleased to see that, somehow, Etta retains her mirth, a quirk of humor forever tugging at still lips. As much as it hurts, she can’t help smiling a little herself as she gently tucks the bag next to folded hands.

“Good show. I think Mum’ll prefer that over flowers.”

She tilts her head in acknowledgement as Kitty steps up beside her. “Took me almost the whole week to find a shop that makes them just the way she loved them… I wish I’d thought to look for it while she was still here.”

“She still appreciates the effort, you know she does.” A hand, thinner, longer, takes hold of hers, and it’s not the  _same,_ but she accepts the comfort offered with a gentle squeeze. “Will you be coming to the burial?”

“I don’t know. I wanted to make sure I said my farewell here, just in case I couldn’t.”

“I understand. It’ll be a couple hours before they move her, so take all the time you need. I’ll handle wrangling the harpies,” Kitty says with that grin that tugs at her heart because it’s hers, hers,  _hers._

 _“_ Thank you.”

And then they are left alone again, and she inhales, sharp, deep, and chilled, staring up at the arches of the church ceiling as her eyes sting for so long,  _so_ long. 

“Say hello to all of them for me,” she finally whispers, soft and reverent, and bends down to press a kiss to a cold forehead.

And she’s gone.


End file.
